


batty

by sternenrotz



Series: rebirth [1]
Category: The Horrors (Band)
Genre: AU, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Art, Depression, Developing Relationship, Drunken Philosophy, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Poetry, Lowercase, M/M, One Night Stands, Past Relationship(s), Recreational Drug Use, parentheses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-13
Updated: 2012-08-13
Packaged: 2017-12-08 06:32:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/758188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternenrotz/pseuds/sternenrotz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>too artsy for comfort. Rhys is deeply emotionally damaged, Faris is a somewhat prestigious mad artist, Joe works at a library and writes poetry when he's drunk, and Harry and Rhys aren't related to each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	batty

**Author's Note:**

> titled after this Shel Silverstein poem: ([x](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m7s3nzuyCw1rc3di3o1_500.jpg))
> 
> fic mix here: ([x](http://8tracks.com/jealoussun/turn-on-the-dark))

what happens is that he doesn't quite remember what happened, but one morning, Rhys wakes up and there's a boy in his bed. there's a small hangover headache pounding in the very back of his brain and he feels the overwhelming need to piss, but the boy's head is lolling against his shoulder and one of the boy's arms is wrapped around him, fingers pressing into his hip, and so, Rhys just stays there.

around the room lingers the stench of sweat and sex, and suddenly, he remembers that the sheets on their bed are the floral print ones Faris got from his grandmother when he moved out, the really ugly ones. Rhys hopes two things right then, one, that last night, the boy didn't pay too much attention to the pattern, because the last guy he took home complained that it was making him nauseous, and two, that he will find the time to wash the sheets before Faris gets back.

next to him, the boy mumbles something into the space between the pillow and his skin, and Rhys figures he should probably get out of the room before the boy wakes up. he shuffles out from underneath his arm, awkwardly, like he's limbo dancing, almost, and Rhys grins to himself at the absurdity of the metaphor. he pulls on his t-shirt from yesterday and picks up a pair of briefs from the floor, does the sniffing test, they're still good to go. he walks over into the bathroom to piss, and only then does he notice the stinging in his arse. almost, he wants to berate himself for worrying about something this insignificant, but he hopes he didn't make those ugly mewling noises during sex last night that Faris used to mock him for, and also, he hopes that the boy remembered to use a condom. he makes his way into the kitchen and turns on the electric kettle, pours in just enough water to fill two cups and adds teabags, the sweet rose hip tea that every one of his friends used to complain about, how it's too sweet and doesn't taste like tea at all. right now, though, it's what he needs.

while he waits for it to boil, Rhys swallows a Paracetamol, dry, and hopes it helps with his sore arse, and he goes through the fridge until he finds a cup of yoghurt. he doesn't bother reading the flavour on the label before he pulls it off, and briefly, he wonders when he turned into the type of person who eats yoghurt. a little, it tastes like it could be strawberry. maybe pineapple. or cherry.

he pours two cups of tea, four sugars in each, and drinks them both while reading yesterday's morning paper, he reads the obituaries and the column with the newborn babies in the area, and he solves the crossword and also wonders when he became the type of person who does crossword puzzles. he reads the comics and laughs at the corny jokes, and checks his horoscope for the week, according to the stars, it's the ideal time for him to start a new relationship.

Rhys sneers at that and takes one last sip from his tea, but he can't help but briefly think back to the boy in his bed. he wonders if maybe, he should leave, avoid any awkward situations, and he also worries how the boy is going to get home, because God knows that both of them were too smashed to drive last night. maybe, Rhys thinks, he should leave a couple quid on the bedside for the boy to find, enough to pay the cab fare, but he also thinks that maybe that would send the wrong message, that he thinks of the boy as a whore, maybe. Rhys then decides that it's far too early in the morning for him to worry so much, and that he could really do with a little fresh air.

he pads back into the bedroom and finds the boy still asleep, face smushed into the pillow and mumbling nonsense once again. his fingers that were curled around Rhys' hip now grip at the sheets, as if he hadn't noticed that he was alone now. a little, Rhys smiles at this sight, and he picks up a halfway clean pair of jeans from the floor and shimmies his way into them.

he wonders if he should leave a note, with his number, maybe, or even just a thank you, or maybe, a note saying that the boy should help himself to coffee and tea in the kitchen, that he'll pay for the cab fare. then, he wants to berate himself, again, for being sappy and optimistic and a hopeless romantic and thinking that this one could be something more. Rhys shakes his head and lets that train of thought go, and slips on his pair of worn-out charity shop trainers and steps out the door.

the September morning sun is too bright and cheery for his liking and stings in the part of the brain where the hangover still pounds, and so, Rhys shields his eyes and limps his way to the shade at the back of the house. he spreads out on one of the sun bleached lawn chairs and shivers, at first, but then he curls onto his side and shuts his eyes again. he tries not to think about the fact that he could have a warm body next to him right now, and then he sleeps and doesn't dream anything.

he sleeps until he hears Faris' car pull up in front of the house, the slosh of the loose gravel under the tires and the roar of the engine, and even though his brain doesn't ache anymore, Rhys still groans to himself and tries to bury his head under a pillow that doesn't exist. for a few more minutes, he stays curled on the lawn chair like that and tries to keep on dozing, which works until there's a slap on his shoulder and Faris is standing next to him.

'move over, I'm sleepy,' Faris says, and he makes it sound like a command.

Rhys blinks and rolls his eyes still sticky with sleep, then, and he says, 'you know, we've got more than one chair.'

''m _really_ cold.'

'fine, c'mere.'

the two of them struggle with adjusting themselves on the narrow lawn chair for a second, but in the end, Rhys is halfway comfortable, with his head on Faris' shoulder and one of his long arms wrapped around Rhys' shoulders, their legs thrown into a tangle. Faris' skin is warm as always, and Rhys presses as close as he can without making it too weird. Faris groans into his hair, and his breath stinks like he gargled with three bottles of mouthwash in one go.

'feel like shit,' he mumbles, 'head hurts so much.'

'hangover?'

Faris puts one hand to his head, and he says, 'fuck, you bet.'

'that bad, then?'

'pretty much.'

Rhys smiles to himself, just the smallest smile, and hopes it doesn't come out too malicious looking. he really likes Faris a lot, even if he is odd and no one else likes him very much, they've got that in common, he thinks. he likes Faris, even though he can't help but internally cringe every time his name crosses his mind, the name Faris, it makes Rhys think of schoolboys with braying laughs who can't keep their hair neat and who listen to crappy music.

he shuffles even closer to Faris until he feels odd strands of hair poking his face and thinks to himself that, well, at least his Faris has the messy hair bit down, and he says, 'on a scale of one to ten, how bad is it?'

'your mum?'

'my mum's dead, you fuck. you know that'

''s true. I got a hangover the size of your mum's fat bloated carcass.' Faris laughs, dryly, before he freezes up and places one hand to his forehead. his face twists up in pain, and Rhys can't keep himself from laughing at that.

'you're horrible.'

'I know. you got any fags?'

Rhys reaches for the squashed pack in his pocket but finds it to be empty, and says, ''m all out.'

'you're the worst renter, you know that?'

'I don't even pay any rent.'

''s my point.'

Faris shuts his eyes and tips his head back, and Rhys relaxes and presses closer. he thinks he can feel Faris' breathing still, that he's fallen asleep, and so Rhys wraps his arm around his waist, just to feel some more of his warmth, and then he hears Faris' voice again. 'hear you got laid last night.'

'guess so.'

'he's not bad looking. congratulations.'

'you met him, then?'

'fuck, no. he's still asleep, saw him when I went to drop my bag off. you sure he's okay?'

'we'll give him some more hours.'

'you sure he's not _dead_ or anything, then?'

'don't matter.' Rhys shakes his head, the sound of the oily strands of his hair scratching against Faris' shirt, and he says, ''m being realistic, just saying.'

the one thing Rhys does hate about Faris is the way he's always convinced that things will get better, that one day, Rhys will be able to get out of bed on time every day and hold a job and find a guy who loves him. a little, Rhys wonders how someone who writes poetry about drowning and being dismembered and who draws boys with empty rib cages that look way too much like Rhys himself for it to be a coincidence, how someone like that can be this god damn optimistic.

'you know, sometimes good things can happen to you, too. doesn't mean they're less real.'

Rhys rolls his eyes at that, almost sleepy from the feeling of warm human surrounding him, and he says, 'look, Faris, can we just talk about this later? 'm really tired.'

he thinks the Paracetamol may be starting to really hit, or at least that's what he tells himself he's thinking, and he adds, 'let's go to sleep.'

he knows that Faris is knitting his brow right now without even seeing his face, that he's probably thinking that they should talk about it now, probably thinking about how repressing his feelings is bad for Rhys, but then Faris says, 'yeah, okay.'

Rhys presses so close he can feel Faris' heartbeat next to his and tightens his grip around his waist, and he tries not to think of the boy or of how long it's been since he moved in with Faris. he listens to both their hearts thumping at odd intervals and thinks that it might be just rhythmic enough in a cacophonous way to lull him to sleep.

'hey, Rhys?'

'yeah?'

'can you stop clinging to me like that? it's weird when you do it.'

Rhys mumbles, 'yeah, sure,' and pulls his arm away and tries to shuffle away from Faris on the narrow chair, but they still end up mostly squished together.

this time, they sleep until they hear the front door slam and the buzz of the engine of a taxi pulling away, and Faris pokes Rhys in the ribs. 'looks like your mystery boy's disappeared, then.'

'shame,' Rhys says, 'I had just the right place to hide the body in mind, too.' he tries to make it sound like a joke, but when he turns his head, Faris can't hide the serious look in his eyes quick enough for him to not notice.

'let's get inside. 'm fucking freezing.'

*

(they do, and Faris cooks more tea, Earl Grey this time, and fries up a platter of eggs and bacon and a bag of frozen chicken wings he found in the back of the freezer. they spend the evening in bed, too lazy to be bothered by the stained sheets, watching sitcom reruns on the small TV screen and eating greasy food with their fingers, and Faris doesn't bring up the boy again. they don't talk about anything, in fact, other than the actors' bad eighties' hairdos, and Rhys wishes it could stay like that forever. Faris is the first to fall asleep, somewhere around three in the morning, the telly still crackling in the background, and Rhys leaves it running, just turns it down a little, and he fits his body against Faris', head in the crook between his neck and shoulders and listens to his pulse for a while, until the five o'clock news come on and he falls asleep as well.

when Rhys finally changes the sheets the day after that, he finds a note tucked under his pillow, a smudgy mobile number in one of Faris' charcoals, scrawled down on ruled paper, and a message below it, _lets go for some beers sometime. call me? xx_ )

*

the second time Rhys meets the boy, it's late October, or he thinks so, at least, because he can't remember the last time he's looked at a calendar, but the shops down in town have Jack-O-Lanterns in the windows and everything is too orange and black for his liking. black, he can deal with, the whole house is covered in the black of his clothes and Faris' ink and charcoal, but orange is a vile colour that makes his eyes ache to the point where he wants to rip them out.

Faris had sent him off to run some errands, buy fags, because they were all out yet again, some food, fruit or something, or pot noodles, anything that'll stay fresh without the fridge to keep it cold, more tea, of course, but not the rose hip stuff because Faris thinks it's vile, fish food for Thomas and Therese, another inkwell, because he was about to run out, again, and candles. loads and loads of candles. takeaway, too, Chinese, please.

Faris had forgotten to pay the electricity bill, again, not because he didn't have money, but because he honestly forgot. he'd spent the last three weeks or so sitting in his study, crouched over his canvases with his fountain pen and multiple sticks of charcoal, and had only come out to make himself a cup of tea or a pot noodle with hot water straight from the tap, or to sleep, not that he slept much without the drone of the TV or the crackle of a record.

whenever Rhys complained, though, Faris just shrugged as if he hadn't heard him, or made some comment about it being romantic, living and working by candlelight. when Faris said these kinds of things, Rhys always just shook his head and said that he felt like a bum living like this, or like he'd been transported back into the 19 th century. Faris, of course, never actually listened, but lately, he'd made comments on how well his latest piece was going, and so he'd probably be done soon. then, he would crawl into bed next to Rhys without even washing the black from his hands, and then he would complain that none of the appliances are working and finally pay the bill.

right now, though, Faris is still locked in his study back at the house and Rhys has to sit it out, without music or television or proper food, and in the dark, because lighting candles isn't an option for him, the smoke makes his eyes water and his nose itch. in a way, he's almost grateful for the opportunity to get away from the dark rooms and the shadows that lurk behind the furniture, even if the shops are packed and every noise makes him freeze up.

Rhys had spent the last fifteen minutes standing in the interior decorating section of the department store, trying to decide whether he should buy sandalwood or clove scented candles, and trying to remember which of these scents Faris preferred, or whether Faris even _liked_ sandalwood scented candles, and it wasn't like he could even just skip the candles and go home, because Faris would be angry. he _needed_ those candles and it had to be the right type, too, no tea lights and nothing that smells like food or like flowers, because that's just vile. no long white candlesticks either, those look too much like church. in the end, after Rhys' brain had started aching with the need for a good book or a cup of tea that doesn't taste like chlorine, anything to take his mind off the crowded town, he had just stuck a box of candles into his coat pocket without looking at it and paid, and he hadn't looked the cashier in the face, either.

now, Rhys is sitting in the coffee shop across the street, the window seat with the view of an old couple on a park bench on a traffic island. he can see them holding hands, the man laughing and the woman feeding pigeons, even with the rain pouring onto the grass and the road around them. they're so huddled up in their winter coats they don't seem to care about the weather. Rhys holds on tighter to the steaming mug in front of him and sneers, because even though the shop and the coffee are both cosy and warm, it's cold and pissing down out there and the bad weather seems to seep right through the glass of the window pane, or maybe that's just the way the storm outside seems to go with his bad mood, and in his mind, Rhys berates himself for thinking in metaphors again.

he's ordered the most sugary, hard to pronounce item off the menu, in the largest available size, and even if it's still too hot to drink, he takes another huge sip and waits for it to heat him up from the inside. the caramel is sickeningly sweet and the coffee too hot on his tongue, sweeter than the worst rose hip tea with four sugars, but right now, this is what he needs, he needs it more than Faris needs his fags or his take out or his candlesticks and more than Therese and Thomas need their fish food. he's still got the noise of the shops and the looks he got from schoolboys ringing through his brain, and he thinks of one of Faris' drawings he saw when Faris thought he wasn't paying attention, a boy with Rhys' hair and facial features, with wires jutting from his skin where the veins normally shone through, and a stick of dynamite placed in his open chest cavity where his heart belonged. maybe, Rhys wonders, that's what's going to happen if he keeps going out in public, that one day the bomb inside him is going to go off and hurt him and everyone around him.

a little, he hates how much of his life has turned into a metaphor, and so Rhys just keeps downing his coffee, no matter how much it burns in his throat, and when the mug is near empty and his stomach feels ready to burst, he digs the newspaper from one of his bags and unfolds it. there's a report on a dead prostitute found floating down the Thames in London and an article about the new mayor in town, and both of them make his stomach turn a little, he can't even remember that there ever was an election.

this week, his horoscope says that he should reach out and reconnect with old friends, and Rhys can't help it, he's thinking of the boy again. he still hasn't called the boy, even now, but he'd copied the number down onto a sticky note and pinned it onto the fridge, with the letter magnets spelling out BOY next to it so he wouldn't forget who it belongs to. he still isn't sure if Faris saw the note, or if he even noticed it stuck there between all of the notebook pages covered in black ink doodles, but either way, he hadn't said anything or brought up the boy again otherwise.

outside the window, the old couple is trying to cross the street without looking left or right. around them, the tires of cars squeak and slosh on the asphalt, and they still don't care, not even when a lorry driver opens his door and starts yelling at them. Rhys wonders if they're doing it on purpose, if it's some sad suicide attempt, and he thinks about how they've got to be the same age as most of the people in the obits who died of old age. he wonders if maybe that's the best way to go, to quit while you're still ahead, for a given definition of 'ahead'.

Rhys finishes his coffee and he's still cold on the inside, and so he orders another one, with extra creamer and a double dose of caramel flavouring. a little, he shakes his head to himself, he doesn't even drink coffee normally.

while he waits for the coffee to cool, he looks out the window again, the bleak weather and the rain sloshing onto the grey of the town a stark contrast to the colourful umbrellas huddled together on the pavement. _like flowers blooming through cracks in the asphalt_ , and he isn't sure whether he wants to roll his eyes at his own metaphor or smile. he watches them bubble along in different directions, red and green and yellow and other colours too bright for his taste, and he wonders what Faris would think of this scene, if he were here. a yellow one wobbles up to his window and comes to a stop, and then there's a knock at the window and from under the yellow, a boy waves.

Rhys hates himself for it, but it takes him a good four seconds to remember just where he's seen this boy's face before, the too-blue eyes and the too-warm close-lipped smile, but then it clicks, and he waves back. the boy makes some vague gestures to signal that he's coming in, and Rhys shrugs and nods. a little, he laughs into the cream on his coffee, at the irony of how he was _just_ thinking of the boy, and he wonders if this is like the metaphors, if this is one of the little things in life that people aren't supposed to notice.

he wonders what Faris would think of this, _again_ , but then the boy is there, ridiculous yellow umbrella dripping onto the wooden floor and with a too-pretty girl on his arm. Rhys frantically tries to remember what the boy's name was, thinks of Martin or Patrick, something like that would suit him. knowing how accurate his guesses tend to be, though, Rhys thinks that it might as well be Scott, so instead he tries to remember whether the boy ever mentioned a girlfriend.

and the boy just smiles again and it's a little too much of everything, and he says, 'well, I didn't expect to find you here.'

the two of them take the spare seats at Rhys' table without asking. 'figured I'd stop by and say hey.'

'I didn't call you the whole month,' Rhys says, doesn't know what else to say. he briefly wonders if that's  _okay_ to say, with the boy's girlfriend right here.

'no need to say sorry for that. it happens.'

'I didn't apologise.'

'you were going to.'

the boy laughs, soft and tense and nervous and shaky at the edges. in a way, it's just how Rhys feels, and so he laughs along.

next to the boy, his girlfriend is ordering coffees from a waiter. she's the kind of pretty girl that has long dark hair and a low voice, and long thin-but-not-bony fingers with a silver ring on her middle one and groomed nails. he guesses that she probably played the violin in high school, and that her name is most likely Maura or Anna, something pretty. she finishes her order, and the boy glances around between the two of them.

'right,' he says, 'Rhys, this is my girlfriend, Harry.'

the girlfriend holds out her hand and her bracelets jingle, and she laughs and says, 'a nickname. my parents were cruel.'

'pleasure to meet you,' he says, 'it's Rhys, obviously.'

'right. I've heard some things about you from Joe.'

Harry is smiling, the same too-bright smile as the boy – Joe, Rhys reminds himself, a close call but not quite – and so he smiles back. the waiter returns with two cups of coffee and Joe thanks him. Harry pours a packet of sugar into the foam of her cappuccino, and Rhys watches the way it parts and says, 'well.'

Joe says, 'so.'

Harry says, 'let's just talk.'

*

(they do. they talk about everything, everything and nothing, really, about _Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas_ and poetry and music, about the fact that they all like Jim Morrison, about psychology and the colour of songs. Joe mentions that he works at a library, and Harry says that she's a cashier at Sainsbury's and DJs every week at an underground club night to finance her uni courses. the only thing Rhys can say to that is that he studied fashion at uni a year and a bit ago, when he still lived with his mum in central London, and Harry smiles at that, before Joe elbows her in the ribs.

by the time Joe has finished up his second cup of coffee, the sky outside has gone from grey and bleak to black and bleak, and Rhys and Harry have gotten into a lengthy argument about Joy Division albums, and Rhys looks at the clock in his phone display and says, 'shit, I've got to get going.'

he explains that his roommate must be waiting for him with the take out, and so, they pay for their coffees and say their goodbyes. Rhys pulls his hood up and calls for a taxi, and he watches the yellow umbrella disappear into the distance, bright under the street lights.)

*

when he enters the house, the hallway is dark and even more depressing than usual. there's no flicker of candlelight coming from beneath the door to the study. Faris is sitting on the red vinyl sofa in the living room, completely dark with the exception of the lighter he's flicking on and off above his face every few seconds, a strobe or the glow of a firefly illuminating the shapes of the room.

Rhys asks, 'Faris?' and immediately feels a little stupid for it, and instead of replying, Faris stands up, lighter still flicking on and off in his one hand, and pulls him close by the shoulders with the other. Rhys can see the charcoal-dirty stains on his palms, and suddenly, he's really glad that the only colour he wears these days is black.

Faris mumbles, 'fuck, missed you. you've been out for a while,' and bends down to kiss him, long and slow, but hard enough that Rhys is sure he can feel his lips swell with bruises.

'you taste like caramel.'

Rhys thinks to himself that Faris tastes like charcoal, dry and dirty and cold, like the activated carbon tablets he had to swallow once when he got food poisoning, or like ashes on the wind. a little, it makes him nauseous, and he says, 'I take it you're done with your project, then.'

Faris nods, eyes glistening in the flame. 'I'll pay the bill tomorrow. fuck, I'm a cunt.'

Rhys can feel his heartbeat again, the thumping in his throat near his ear. a little, he feels even smaller next to Faris than usual, but then, everyone feels small next to Faris. 'you're not a cunt.'

'I am. you don't deserve this, you know?'

Rhys isn't sure what to say to that, and Faris' hand tightens on his shoulders until it's painful the way Faris kisses is painful.

'fuck, of course you don't know. you're lovely, Rhys. really, you are.'

Rhys almost feels like crying, he can feel the tightness in his throat and the moisture in his eyes, but he doesn't cry. he knows for fact that Faris isn't crying, either, he can't remember to have ever seen Faris cry. not when they broke up, not when Faris' last girlfriend left him, not even _that_ night.

Rhys manages to worm one of his arms up to his face to wipe his eyes on his jacket sleeve, and he says, 'Faris?'

'yeah?'

'you're making this really weird right now.'

'sorry,' Faris says, and they pull apart.

his eyes are dry, of course they are, and that makes Rhys feel even smaller, in a way.

'fuck, I need a fag.'

*

(the rest of the evening, they eat barely-lukewarm take out from the container and let the ash from their fags drip onto the sofa. Faris complains about the candles, he hates sandalwood, but lights them anyway, and tells Rhys all about the piece he's just finished, it's his best yet, he knows for sure, he's never felt this content with finishing anything. the whole time, Rhys nods and smiles, but he's listening less to what Faris is saying and more to the way his voice sounds, calm and confident and full of love. he hugs his knees and smiles a little wider, because he loves everything Faris loves.

later that night, Faris curls up next to him in bed and asks him to read _Slaughterhouse-Five_ out loud. Rhys remarks that it doesn't seem like the ideal story to fall asleep to, but Faris shrugs and says, 'you know I can't fall asleep when it's quiet.'

and so, Rhys reads. it only takes half a chapter until Faris' breathing slows, and Rhys blows out the candles and presses his chest against Faris' back, Faris' knobbly spine pushing painfully into his sternum.

Rhys listens for Faris' heartbeat, again, but doesn't hear anything, and he finally cries and isn't quite sure why himself.)

*

(some mornings after that, when the power is working again, Faris wakes Rhys up with a shove against his shoulder and tells him that he's found one of the fish floating belly-up dead in the tank.

Rhys blinks at first, not sure if he's slept for too long or not long enough, but then he lets Faris pull him up and lead him into the bathroom. the dead one is Therese, this time around. Rhys doesn't remember how long it's been since the last time this happened, or how many times it has, and he isn't sure if he wants to.

Therese's carcass lies on the side of the sink, soft and floppy and sad, and somehow, the vibrant orange of her scales seems dull and sad, too. Rhys bites his lip, because there's nothing else he could do. he's not going to cry again.

Faris picks Therese up by the little joint of her tail fin and flushes her down the toilet and it's the single most impious thing Rhys had ever seen in his life. he curls his lips into a thin line, trying to imitate the way Faris looks when he's dissatisfied with something, cold and emotionless and disdainful, but he doesn't have the hawking features and the general aloofness to pull it off, Rhys doesn't think, so he looks more like a moody teenage girl.

he says, 'well.'

'well, what?'

'aren't you going to say something?'

Rhys tries to make it deadpan, make it look like bathos or situational irony, those little things that Faris is always going on about. it comes out as snappy, instead, makes him _sound_ like a teenage girl as well, and he sucks his lip harder.

Faris shoots him the exact kind of disdainful look he'd been aiming for earlier and says, 'fuck, I can't believe you sometimes.' he clears his throat and continues, 'fuck, fine. rest in peace, Bubbles. I'm sure he was a great fish. best at doing nothing and swimming around and eating fish food.'

Faris pushes the flush lever down once again, as if to underline his speech, and then Rhys actually starts crying and can't do anything but wish that he wasn't.

'her name was Therese. she was a female.'

the sobs are hiccuping up into his chest, and he bites down so hard on his lip that he can feel the bruises all over again.

Rhys' vision starts to blur and he feels Faris dabbing a little ball of bunched up toilet paper against his cheeks, all while mumbling to himself, 'Christ, I can't believe this,' and, 'it's just a fucking fish,' saying, 'how the fuck do you even _tell_ .'

Rhys feels stupid, more stupid than normally in situations like these, and he pushes Faris away once his tears stop flowing and says, 'no, no, it's okay. I'm okay.'

he blows his nose in the wad of toilet paper one last time and tells Faris that he's going back to bed, he feels tired. he really does, his eyes ache with tears and sleepiness, and Faris doesn't say or do anything but flick off the lights in the bedroom and hallway.)

*

later that day, when he wakes up to the sound of an old crackly record, Rhys does not get up.

he doesn't get up the day after, either, or the day after that. there's an ache in his whole body that feels like it came from nowhere, or at least that's what he tells himself, and a little, he wonders if the sour taste on his tongue is proof that he's finally started to decay. he keeps his hands folded on his chest, fingers laced over his heart, like a corpse in its casket, and he only gets up to piss. Faris makes him chicken soup for dinner and brings him cups of rose hip tea every few hours, and they listen to old records for most of the day but Rhys barely pays any attention.

a few nights into it, they're lying in bed, each of them on his own side, and Rhys thinks about Faris' warmth, radiating off his body so much that it's almost scorching. almost, he misses the feeling, but his bones feel like toothpicks barely holding his flesh together, and so he curls his fingers tighter together and scowls. across the mattress, Faris lights a fag, his form barely illuminated by the red neon lights of the LED alarm clock and the flame of the lighter, and exhales a long thread of smoke up to the ceiling.

'you know, Rhys,' he says, voice low and distorted at the edges with sleep, 'really, I should be asking you why the fuck you can't just buy a new fish and get over with it.'

from the corner of his eye, Rhys watches the firefly-glow cherry of Faris' cigarette move down towards his lips, and he tries to remember the last time he had a fag. a little, he wonders if that would make it better.

'but no, here's the thing, your problem is that it's really not about the fish at all. you're just using it as an excuse.' Faris coughs, twice. ''cos you can't get your life together, so you make everything into the same problem.'

the bedsprings creak as he rolls onto his side, and Rhys knows he should be saying something now, but all he can think of is the taste of a fag between his lips.

he asks, 'care to let me have a drag?' and it sounds raspy and foreign.

'yeah, sure, no thing.'

the bed squeaks again and Faris moves closer, closer, until his face is scorching hot against Rhys' cheek, their legs pressed against each other, and Rhys takes Faris' hand with the cigarette and guides it to his own lips. his fingers are stiff, joints cracking, and he sighs and smokes half the fag's length with only a few drags.

Faris takes the butt from his lips and pushes it out against the headboard, and he wraps one arm around Rhys' chest and whispers, 'fuck, Rhys.'

his lips are so close to Rhys' skin that he can feel Faris’ breath, the way the words are dropping against his skin, and he doesn't move a muscle.

'fuck,' Faris says again, nose rubbing into his cheek, and Rhys tells himself that it doesn't mean anything, that they won't speak of this, and so he relaxes just a little, and he goes to sleep.

the morning after that, it's the fifth day in a row and Rhys still can't get up.

Faris shakes his head when he sets the teacup down on the night stand and says, 'I'm going to stay at Tom's. call me before you do anything stupid.'

Rhys doesn't say anything as he watches Faris walk out of the room, satchel stuffed with art supplies flung over his shoulder, and after he hears the front door click shut and the slosh of the gravel, he drinks his tea and looks out the window for the first time in at least a week. outside, the trees are nearly bare, sad black skeletons of thin branches with just a few soggy leaves clinging on to them, like something out of Faris' drawings, and Rhys wonders what day it is. he gets up to fetch the paper, bones snapping and cracking in his legs and spine, and he reads the obits over a cup of yoghurt, pineapple, and solves the crossword and wonders if he should call Faris now.

he checks his horoscope, and instead of Faris, he decides to call Joe.

*

(they meet up in the park, not too far from the coffee shop, after the library closes and the sky is already purpley midnight blue with dusk. it's not raining this time, but the grass under his boots crunches with the white of hoar frost, and Rhys pulls the zip of his jacket up to his throat and tugs at his hood. Joe is sitting on a bench, a sixpack of beer beside him with one can already popped open and in his hand.

'hey.'

'hey.' the wood of the bench is cold against Rhys’ arse even through the layers of coat and jacket and trousers. he really wants a fag, and so he fumbles to light one up with his gloves on.

Joe takes a swig from his beer. 'just so you know, this isn't going to be some getting pissed and shagging in a motel room thing. 'm not cheating on my girlfriend. just in case you were wondering.'

Rhys watches as Joe scratches his nose, and he nods. 'wasn't thinking of that at all. I just.' he pauses and wonders why the words are getting stuck in his throat, notices how dry his mouth feels, and he eyes the cans standing between them. 'just wanted to talk, 's all.'

a pause. somewhere in the distance, a bat flaps its wings, and Rhys coughs and feels like he should say something.

'I thought bats flew south when it starts to get cold.'

'you're thinking of birds.' Joe crosses his legs, adjusts himself to sit more comfortably, and he points one hand over to the beers. 'help yourself, by the way. 's why I brought them.'

Rhys does. they drink, in silence, for a while, and then Joe pulls a permanent marker from the pocket of his coat and scrawls something onto the wood of the bench, barely illuminated by the flicker of the lantern some feet away.

Rhys doesn't realise it at first, but he must have been staring, because Joe shrugs and lifts his beer again, only to find it to be empty.

'yeah, yeah, I know, it's illegal. don't give me that look.' he pulls the tab on the last can and sips and says, 'it's art,' and then laughs, awkward and too high-pitched and tipsy, and says, 'sort of. maybe.'

at that, Rhys just blinks for a second and then takes a swig from his own beer, head already swimming a little because he's always been a lightweight. he says, 'you know, like that, you remind me of my roommate.'

Joe sniggers again and it's braying, loud and way too far gone sounding for someone who's only on his third beer. 'your roommate's a berk.'

'yeah, I know he is.'

there's another pause, and Joe lights himself a fag and puffs on it twice before he speaks again. this time, it's quieter, almost shy. 'you can read it, by the way, if you want. I mean, that's the reason I write these things.'

Rhys leans over, across the gathered empty cans, and squints to look. they're so close that he can smell the beer and smoke on Joe's breath, and he knows Joe can probably smell the same things on his breath as well.

on the bench, in round, hurried handwriting, it says, 'all this english rain is going to give me a sunburn'.

he looks up at Joe when he says, 'that's pretty clever,' and they smile at the exact same time.

a little, Rhys isn't sure if it's the booze or the awkwardness of the moment, but he laughs and it cracks in his throat, and it almost feels like crying.)

*

after that, it keeps happening. Rhys will call Joe, three or four times a week, and they'll end up places, getting drunk and talking about nothing and scrawling things that are only half meaningful.

around a week after the very first time, they're sitting in the park again, and Joe tosses Rhys the marker after he finishes writing, 'maybe the sun is not a ball of fire. maybe its a hole in a bed sheet sky and god is looking through it. god is really a bed sheet ghost.'

he smiles, eyes dark with drunkenness, and takes a swig from the bottle of Jack Daniel’s they're sharing between them. 'c'mon, try it yourself. it's not hard.'

Rhys fumbles to get the cap off in his gloves and sneers, 'course it's not hard. you're just writing nonsense, nothing hard about that,' but he gets to writing anyway.

he writes, 'its about damn time i finally get the death card,' and he hands the marker back to Joe and goes for the whiskey.

Joe says, 'let me see, let me see,' giggling under his breath, and reads. a little, his eyes tighten, but then his whole face goes bright, as if he finally got it, and he says, 'that's good, you know.'

'thanks. I guess.' Rhys pushes a fag between his lips and flicks his lighter twice, but no flame comes out. 'you got any fire?'

the week after that, they go to the cinema and pick the cheesiest horror film they can find. they eat popcorn and share the flask of Captain Morgan Rhys smuggled in his coat pocket. when the killer sets yet another victim doused with gasoline alight on the silver screen and Rhys is trying his hardest to not look away, Joe produces a carpet knife from one of his pockets and carves into the plush of the empty seat next to himself, 'once i was so drunk i heard my heart echo.'

most of the time when they meet, they just go to the park, a different bench every time, bundled up so thickly in coats that they can't feel the frost. they get Chinese take-out, or burgers, or kebabs from the deli around the corner to keep themselves warm, and they drink. one time, Joe writes, 'what if we dont drink to escape reality? maybe reality really is distorted and amusing and dizzying and the only way we notice is by getting pissed?'

Rhys tells him, 'you sound like an alcoholic.'

'it's not  _alcoholism_ . I don't drink any more than you do, it's asking questions. philosophy, art.' Joe goes off into a laughing fit and nearly chokes on his beer.

Rhys asks, 'how's that work that something is art and philosophy at the same time?' and he doesn't get an answer other than choked off sniggers.

another time, Rhys writes on a lamp post, with Joe on the lookout to make sure no one walks by and catches them in the stark light. he writes, 'some days i feel like collarbones on a cat,' and Joe nudges his side and asks, 'you mean like something that doesn't exist or something that shouldn't exist?'

'bit of both, I think. maybe,' Rhys says.

and Joe laughs, but even through the drunkenness it doesn't sound real.

on the side of a bus stop, Rhys scrawls, giddy with the alcohol in his bloodstream and the high from the spliff Joe is taking a big drag from, 'i wonder what the fuck made you uptight types call the eccentric ones moon child like its an insult. where i'm from, they sneer and call you earth child.'

he writes on the wall of a subsidized living block, 'i wish my zodiac would tell me when i'm about to crash,' and Joe sighs a little and offers him the bottle of tequila and another slice of pizza.

under the flickering lights of the gritty-looking bathroom of the club where Harry DJs, Joe writes, 'we put up neon signs and street lights to make the night brighter than the day and then we wonder why the fuck we can't sleep anymore.'

that time, it's Rhys who sighs and says, 'c'mon, let's go. next round on me.'

once, after it's already started snowing and the entire town is decked in gaudy shades of red and green and gold, they drive out to the woods not far from Faris' house. they lie on the roof of the car, huddled together for warmth, and eat burgers and pass a joint between them.

up above them, the sky is such a deep blue it might be black, and Joe nudges Rhys and says, 'hey, Rhys? you know which one this is? I think that's the little dipper.'

'I think that's Libra. been a while.'

Joe says, 'oh,' and wraps one arm around Rhys' shoulders to pull him closer. 'fuck, you're really cold.'

''m always cold,' Rhys says. a little, he laughs, and Joe laughs along, even when he's shaking his head all along.

'that's not good, you know,' he says once he's stopped laughing, and Rhys just shrugs at that.

*

later that night, when their highs have worn off, Joe writes on a tree trunk, 'theres no point in trying to extinguish a burning house. the things you really need, their the ones you dig out of the ashes later on.'

Rhy tries his hardest not to cry in the car, but he does anyway, and Joe doesn't say anything and hands him a greasy napkin to dry his tears with.

*

one late night, they're waiting on the curb for the cab Rhys had called, squatting side by side, close enough that their knees touch. Rhys had told Joe that he could go home already, he doesn't mind, but Joe had just shaken his head and said, 'no, no, it's all right, I don't mind either,' and so he'd stayed.

up above them, the blue light of television screens is flickering out of the windows onto the whitewashed walls, interspersed by the shaky silhouettes of people passing by. in a way, the way they fall onto the pavement resembles blue reverse angels, almost, and Rhys smiles at his own metaphor, a little harder than he had been smiling before. next to him, Joe shifts his weight a little and lights a fag, and Rhys can feel the heat coming from his body through the layers of clothing and cold air, even.

almost, he wants to say that he's happy, not just to himself, but tell everyone, tell Joe, go back to the pub and tell the bartender and the few patrons that had been sat in there when they'd left, tell the driver of the cab that was sure to pull up next to them any minute, and wake up Faris when he gets home and tell all of them, 'I feel happy,' but instead, he just quietly sniggers into his own mouth, like it's a secret, in a way.

Joe pokes him in the side and asks, 'what's so funny?', and Rhys says, 'nothing.'

he pauses and watches Joe's throat work as he sucks on his fag, and then he says, 'life. us. you know.'

Joe grins, faint blue and yellow shadows cast by the angels and the street lights on his face, and says, 'yeah. guess I know.'

in the distance, the humming of an engine approaches and a yellow taxicab appears from around the corner.

they stand up and watch the headlights get closer, and Joe says, 'you know, I swear you're the second best thing that's ever happened to me.' a smile spreads across his face, crooked with drunkenness, and he adds, 'I know, this sounds stupid, what with me being pissed and all that, but it's true.'

Rhys doesn't have to guess who is the first. 'thanks,' he says, 'I guess.'

the cab pulls up to the side of the road next to them, and Joe hugs Rhys to his chest, quickly, and says, 'take care.'

'I will. I guess. you too.'

'see you around, then?'

'yeah. we'll see.'

*

(Rhys gets into the back seat of the cab and gives the driver directions to Faris' house, and as he watches Joe walk off into the other direction, the whole car ride back, he swears he can feel his heart go twice as fast as normal.

he thinks of what Joe wrote, weeks and weeks ago, and wishes he could blame it on the alcohol.)

*

when the crash happens, a few days after that, Rhys isn't sure what the cause of it is.

he'd gone out to the pub with Joe, again, and he'd scrawled onto the counter, while the barman wasn't looking, 'i hate getting into fights with myself. i always lose,' and Joe had written into the corner of the mirror in the men's room, 'nicotine, valium, vicodine, marijuana, ecstasy and relationships'. they'd talked about nothing and took turns buying shots, as usual, and at the end of the night, Rhys had phoned for a taxi, as usual.

the morning after, he's lying in bed next to a still sleeping Faris and absolutely cannot get up, and he knows for fact that it's not just his hangover talking. he doesn't get up later that morning when Faris pokes him in the ribs and says, 'come on, drunkard, you can't stay asleep all day,' and he doesn't get up the next day, either. Joe calls, twice, but Rhys doesn't pick up, because it's not like he can, and he doesn't even bother with the food and tea Faris leaves at his bedside table.

the third day of the crash, Faris flops down onto the foot of the bed and sighs. 'hey, Rhys?'

Rhys makes a sound that could pass as both a yes or a no, muffled by a pillow on his face from which he can't remember where it came from and which he can't bother removing.

'you know, it's been exactly a year now since you moved back in with me. year and a half since the fire.'

Rhys says, 'fuck,' and doesn't even mean to, and the ugly feeling in his gut that makes him feel paralysed only gets stronger.

'yeah, fuck. look, I know this isn't easy for you. it's not easy for me either. but I think it's about damn time you start to move on. got to stand on your own feet again. see a therapist, get a job, find a place to stay. see, I don't really know what this is like for you, but I can imagine.'

from the space between the pillowcase and the mattress, Rhys can see Faris puffing his fag, head lolled back and no expression on his face. he doesn't speak, again, but he rolls onto one side, bones feeling creaky with every muscle he moves, away from Faris.

'see, it's not the money, it's not even that it really bothers me that you're not getting better, but you're not even trying. worse, you don't even try to  _try_ to get better. that's low. you just go out and get drunk with that boy you have like he's going to actually fall in love with you and like that's going to make it better.'

Rhys pictures the look Faris has on his face as he speaks, or the look he _would_ have on his face if he emoted at all, spiteful, looking out to see if it stings where he hopes it stings. and it does sting.

'fuck you.'

'don't be like that,' Faris says, ''s not like I'm not right.'

Rhys hears him shift into a different position, and when he continues speaking, Rhys can imagine the way Faris presses a hand to his forehead under his fringe the way he does when he's frustrated.

'honest, it's not just that. you know I like having you around most of the time. but see, I'm an artist. I need my own space, and I just end up treating you like shit when I work. I've got this idea for a project right now and I can't work on it when you're around all the time.'

there's the sound of a lighter flicking on, like Faris is lighting up another fag, and half of Rhys wants to press the pillow over his head so he doesn't have to hear anything any more. press it down until he stops breathing. 'you done already?'

'yeah.'

a pause. Rhys feels Faris' weight move around on the mattress and hears the creaking of bedsprings and he imagines the way he's shifting around, the way he does when he gets really uncomfortable.

'not really, actually. look, I've been talking to Tom, and the thing is, he's tired of not being able to go back home with me 'cause you're here all the time, and he's considering moving in with me in some months, maybe.'

'so you're fucking Tom, then.'

'I thought I told you that.'

'yeah, but I didn't think you two were serious. as in moving-in-together serious.' Rhys turns once more, onto his back again, and he hopes that Faris can imagine his face under the pillow. 'and I don't see why I've got to go so you can be a broody arsehole, but Tom can live with you just because you're fucking him.'

''s because Tom's different. Tom has a job and he's got money to pay my bills when I forget. and he can take care of himself and I don't have to constantly worry that one morning I'll wake up and find him catatonic next to me, or that he'll kill himself if I don't pay attention enough.'

'so basically you're saying it wouldn't be an issue at all if I got my shit together and stopped going out with people you don't like. I'm guessing it would be a nice bonus if we were fucking again.' Rhys spits the words up into the cotton on his face where it's sticky with snot, and he hopes that he gets Faris good, he wants him to feel like every word is a punch in his face. 'not like this isn't the sort of thing that made everything turn to shit the first time around.'

'yeah. no. fuck, Rhys, that's not what I meant at all.' there's another creak when Faris stands up. 'you're so unreasonable, fuck. I need some fresh air.'

Rhys listens as his steps on the floor get quieter and then disappear, and when he's sure that Faris won't come back, he presses the pillow down onto his face and starts to cry. the whole time, he wants to berate himself for being like this, being neurotic and overly sensitive, and for not even trying to change anything, for making Faris' life hard and for turning everything between them even more awkward than it was before, and when he feels like his eyeballs are dried up on the inside and shrivelled, he goes to sleep and dreams of a storm.

*

(when Rhys awakes, it's to the sensation of Faris pulling the pillow from his face and the smell of a hot cup of rosehip tea on his bedside. Faris is sitting on his side of the bed, legs crossed and fag dangling between his fingers, but not lit. 'hey again. you okay?'

'could be better.' Rhys shuffles up the bed until his back is pressed against the headboard, bones creaking and aching with every movement, and he reaches for the teacup and sips and doesn't care if it's scorching hot in his mouth. 'fuck, I need a fag.'

Faris passes his over and lights it for Rhys, and he says, 'look, I'm really sorry. I know how hard this has got to be, but I really just want you to get better. I hate seeing you like this, fuck.' his face is screwing up into an almost pained grimace, like he's trying to show his feelings for once but doesn't know how to.

Rhys wants to look away from it. he doesn't like this, seeing Faris like that and knowing it's his fault. a little, he also wonders when he's become so pathetic and people-pleasing, and then wonders some more and wonders if there'd ever been a time where he _wasn't_ pathetic and people-pleasing.

'I really do like you a lot, Rhys, you know that. I like you as much as someone who's as crazy as me can like someone who's as crazy as you.'

'doesn't mean you do a great job of showing it though.' Rhys takes a long drag and exhales up into the ceiling and hopes it looks as condescending as it's meant to.

'yeah, I know. but I hope you like me back at least a little.'

Rhys doesn't answer this time, not because he can't think of anything, but because he knows that no matter what he says, it's going to lead to at least one of them being angry, at himself or the other, and so he just lets the ash from his fag drip onto the bedspread between them.

'Rhys, look, I told you that I'm sorry and I probably didn't mean half of what I'd just said. I don't care if you stay or leave or what you do in your own time, I just want you to try to get better. that's all.' Faris is running one hand over his forehead again, brushing back the fringe and rubbing at the skin, like he's trying to iron out the wrinkles from worrying. 'and I'd like it if you stopped being mad at me.'

Rhys pushes the butt of the fag out against the duvet and sighs, just a little. he can't stand the way Faris gets when he gets emotional and wonders if that's because he really does like Faris as much as he can like anyone, or if it's just the whole people-pleasing nature thing.

'yeah. guess I can do that.'

'all right.'

Rhys moves across the bed until he's close enough to wrap an arm around Faris and says, 'I hate it too, you know.'

'what?'

'seeing myself like this, I guess. being like this.'

'figured as much.'

'yeah.'

he kisses Faris, soft and slow and careful, and he tastes something in his mouth and can't place it and wonders if it's what sadness tastes like.

'sorry. was that okay?'

'yeah, no problem.' Faris grins, crooked, and Rhys would almost call it shy, if he didn't know for fact that Faris doesn't even have an idea of what shyness feels like. 'you can do it again. if you like.'

'all right.'

Rhys moves in closer, until he can feel the heat coming off Faris' skin practically scorch him even through their layers of clothes.

'hey, do you think you can put some music on? I can't stand the quiet.'

'sure.')

*

(they listen to Joy Division for the rest of the evening, and at some point, Faris shoves him in the side and gives him a crooked grin. 'look at us. two sad homos listening to angsty post punk. what a cliché.'

'I know, right.' Rhys reaches for another fag and lights it, then hands it over to Faris. 'look, can we pretend that this whole thing, the argument and all, that didn't happen?'

'what, you thought I was gonna act like it _did_ happen?'

'fair enough.')

*

some days after, Rhys and Joe are sitting on a bench near the orchard. it's still early, since Joe has the day off from work, but they're taking turns sipping from a Thermos of hot chocolate and rum, which really is more rum than hot chocolate.

Joe writes, 'i don't understand why we have two hands to hold but only one heart.'

Rhys ponders on this for a moment before he sets the Thermos down and he says, 'so my roommate wants me to move out.'

'you know what I think about your roommate.'

'yeah, I admit it, he's a berk.'

Rhys picks up an apple off the ground, rotten and half frozen over, and chucks it off into the distance.

Joe laughs. 'massive berk. so why does he want you gone then?'

'you know. says he needs his own space, for his art. and so he can fuck his boyfriend.'

'boyfriend? thought you and he were a thing?'

'we're not.' Rhys takes another swig of the chocolate and passes it over to Joe, who accepts.

'you'd said something that you were, some weeks ago, I think.'

'don't remember that. must've been drunk.'

'of course you were. no, but I could've sworn that you said something about your roommate, that you were fucking him.'

'yeah, well, I'm not. haven't been for a long time.' Rhys coughs, twice, and doesn't know why.

Joe says, 'well, then,' and downs what's left of the rum and chocolate. 'fuck.'

'what?'

'booze is all out.' Joe sets the empty Thermos down into the frozen dirt.

'you gonna get some more?' Rhys asks and scoots down the bench to sit a little closer to Joe, and he tells himself it's because he doesn't want to get cold without the warm metal between his fingers and the taste of hot cocoa in his mouth.

'don't want to move.' Joe turns his head and fixes Rhys with a drunken stare. 'too drunk to get up.'

Rhys laughs. 'you've not even had that much.'

'I like sitting here. like the view. trees and that.'

'you're a lightweight, c'mon,' Rhys says, but he nods anyway and takes a look at his surroundings, the skeletal branches of the apple trees, not a single leaf left on them. he thinks of the old cliché, the sickly child who just wants to live long enough to see the last leaves, and he wants to laugh.

Joe mumbles, 'mm, maybe,' and picks another rotten apple up. he throws it away, but it doesn't gather much momentum, and so they watch it tumble along the frozen ground for a few seconds until it disappears somewhere. 'so what're you gonna do about this?'

'this  _what_ ?'

'your berk of a roommate.'

'dunno.' Rhys shrugs, non-committal, and lights himself a fag. 'move out, I suppose, if he wants me gone.'

'you got any place you can go, then?'

'maybe. I know a bunch of people I can crash with for a while. go back to London, to my old job, maybe.'

Joe gives him a look, a little too long and a little too knowing for someone who's already tipsy, but Rhys tells himself to shrug it off and puffs his cigarette. the hazy smoke mingles with the white fog of Joe's breath and his own, and he smiles and isn't sure who he's trying to reassure with it.

'I swear, I'll be fine, I'm not completely dependant on Faris. I'll find something.'

'you could always move in with us, you know.'

'what?'

'yeah, move in with me and Harry. she's been meaning to look for a roommate for a while any way.'

Rhys shrugs, again, and thinks back to Harry, who's friendly and pretty and going places in life, and he guesses he should at least like her, judged by how much Joe seems to love her. 'she's probably talking about a proper room mate. someone who has a job and can help pay bills and won't sit around the house being useless all the time.'

'I'm sure she'll be okay with it. she likes you, you know.'

'she does.'

'yeah. she asks about you a lot.'

'so does she know, then?'

'know what?'

'you know, about us. how we met.'

Joe stares, again, and says, 'are you crazy?'

a split second of hesitation, and he adds, 'wait. wait. don't answer that.'

almost, Rhys wants to laugh, the kind of laugh that's not actually humour but an expression of spitefulness. he does, and it seems harsh against the silence of the woods.

'I don't think you're crazy, just so you know.'

'guess I'll consider it then.'

Joe smiles, all awkward and tipsy yet again, and he stands up and extends a hand.

'come on, let's get going. find more booze and food.'

*

it's Christmas, Rhys thinks, judged by the TV programme and the date of the newspaper, but he doesn't feel like Christmas at all. he spends the whole day on the sofa with Faris, and they order take out and watch cheesy old films.

'would you look at that,' Faris comments at one point of the evening. 'what a fucking trailer trash excuse for a holiday. like some overdone symbol for loss of childhood innocence.'

Rhys just nods and places his head on Faris' shoulder, and he tries to focus on the dialogue on the screen. he's seen the film a million times, or at least that's how it feels, but he can't remember the title.

one of Faris' hands comes to rest on Rhys' knee, and his fingers pull at the threads where the denim is wearing thin, picking a small, frayed hole.

'hey, can you stop that? that's my last pair of jeans without holes in them.'

'maybe you should be more careful,' Faris says, and it doesn't sound like he's trying to be malicious, but then, Faris is the type of person who pulls off malice without even trying.

Rhys says, 'you're making it sound like I did everything on purpose,' and the hand pulls back.

the room goes silent once again, and Rhys leans all the way into Faris, and when he starts crying, he convinces himself that it's because of the film.

*

when they have sex right on that couch later that night, Rhys doesn't feel anything. he can feel Faris' lips all over his face and neck and his hands on his chest, stroking and grasping carefully as if he might break, and he feels Faris inside him as well, slow and gentle and moving at just the right pace and just the angle that makes him feel good, but his head is entirely somewhere else. the whole time, he listens to Faris gasp and whisper around him, 'Rhys,' 'fuck,' 'fuck, Rhys,' and in the end, when they both come, it's good, the way it always was, but it doesn't feel a thing like the make-up sex they used to have. almost, it feels like work, and Rhys scowls internally and represses that thought into a far corner. instead, he listens to Faris' breath catch and the steady beat of their pulses, almost in tandem now, and he doesn't say anything when Faris rasps out, 'well, fuck. guess I just can't do anything right these days.'

Rhys is still half out of it when Faris finally helps him peel his sticky skin off the smooth vinyl upholstery and leads him back to the bedroom, but when they slip under the covers and Faris says, 'this is the last time, you know,' Rhys knows that he doesn't just mean the sex.

*

(the next morning, while Faris is still passed out on his side of the bed, Rhys packs his bag. he doesn't take much, the few good clothes he has, the new age books he picked up at some antique shop, the paper that Faris wouldn't read either way, and a can of fish food for Thomas. he thinks about leaving a note and starts writing on a sheet of ruled paper, but strikes out the words before he even finishes the first sentence. instead, he writes 'sorry,' and pins it onto the fridge, between the near endless leaves of notebook paper covered in scribbles. a little, Rhys doesn't know whether he wants Faris to find it as soon as possible or not at all. he balances the fish glass with Thomas in it in one hand, careful to not let any water spill over the rim, and calls himself a taxi, and when he gets to Joe's flat, Rhys plops down in front of the locked door and waits. he smiles to himself, just a little, and watches Thomas swim around in his bowl for a while, before he unfolds the paper and skims through it. his horoscope tells him that the next year will be better, and he isn't sure whether to smile or sneer.

Rhys takes a nap for a few hours, coat spread out over him, and then orders himself a pizza for lunch. he eats and checks his phone multiple times, not a single message from Faris, and he keeps waiting until the street lights flick on. when Harry is the first to find him, she doesn't even look surprised, just asks him to come in.)

*

Rhys doesn't receive a single message from Faris the next day, either, or the day after that.

Joe and Harry let him move into the spare room, really just a large closet with a bed in it, and Harry apologises at least three times for how small it is, but Rhys tells her it's just fine. and it is.

they find a bottle of champagne in the back of the attic, and after neither Rhys nor Joe can get it open, Harry does it herself and winds up firing the cork up against the ceiling. they laugh it off, though, and they drink and don't bother with glasses. when the champagne is gone, they switch to strawberry wine, until Rhys complains that it tastes like shit and they all decide that they really need to buy some better booze the next time they're out, and so, they rummage around in the attic some more until they uncover a half-empty bottle of Jaegermeister behind a dusty box of vacuum bags.

when the Jaeger is gone as well, they all kiss each other goodnight, and Rhys staggers back to his spare room while Joe and Harry go back into the bedroom. at first, there's drunken laughter coming through the wall, and then Rhys can hear them, soft noises, Joe's vaguely familiar, until Harry's voice says, 'we should be more quiet, you know,' and the sighs fade off and he goes to sleep.

it happens again and again. twice or three times a week, they get drunk together and after, Rhys listens to the quiet little gasps and moans coming through the wall. he never tries to drown it out, doesn't tell them to keep it down or cover his head with the pillow, just listens. once or twice, after a night when he's had especially much to drink, he tries to imagine what's happening on the other side of the wall, tries to match the sounds to the visuals of the few porn films he'd watched way back when he was still in school, the few glimpses he accidentally caught on the odd occasion that Faris brought a girl home with him. it doesn't work, though, it's all too gentle, too soft, and so Rhys rolls over and shuts his eyes. he lets himself be lulled to sleep by the high little noises Harry makes in the back of her throat and the creaks of the bedsprings, and he smiles and thinks that it's all just fine, that they're both happy and he should be happy too, and so he is. some nights, when they weren't drinking, Rhys hears them talking in hushed voices, but he can't make out words, and a little, he feels like home.

the days when Harry and Joe are at work, Rhys doesn't do all that much. once or twice, when it's not too cold, he strolls around town, watching the people and window shopping, and other times, he visits Joe in the library and curls up in the old armchair with the sweaty velvet upholstery. he reads poetry and children's stories, and they drink coffee from the shop around the corner and talk about nothing. most days, though, Rhys stays in the empty flat by himself and reads. he brushes up on his knowledge of tarot cards and reading tea leaves, and a little, he wonders why he can't _not_ believe in these things. one time, on an especially snowy Sunday, he reads Harry's palm and draws her up a detailed birth horoscope, at some point of which Joe groans and leaves the room, saying, 'I'm gonna go out for booze. hope you're done with the new agey shit when I get back.'

Rhys doesn't bother with his own horoscope any more when he reads the paper, but some days, he reads through the obits and halfway through catches himself scouring the page for Faris Badwan.

*

(one night, when they're walking home from the pub, Harry writes onto a billboard with a tube of red lipstick she's only ever used once before, 'I dont understand why people want to know the colour of your eyes so badly, when they only really like you when their squeezed shut,' in big bubbly letters. they cross the street to admire it from afar, and onto a bench at a bus stop, Rhys writes in Joe's permanent marker, 'i think the baby bat is me,' barely visible in the dark.

Joe wraps one arm around his shoulders and asks, 'you okay?'

'more than okay. just need some more booze?'

'booze,' Joe repeats. 'booze is good.'

'booze,' Harry says.

a taxi zips past and the three of them run to try and catch it, laughing all the while.)

*

it's late one night after the snow has started to melt, and Rhys is lying on Joe's living room floor, arms awkwardly wrapped around Joe's waist and face pushed against his shoulder. in total, they'd downed four bottles of red wine between them, the only thing they had left in the flat, and Harry had passed out on the couch around an hour earlier, all while complaining that she'd have the worst hangover the morning after.

Rhys himself also feels like he might pass out any time now, especially with the warmth of the body pressed against his and the regular heaving of Joe's chest. he's more out than in of consciousness when Joe starts to speak, voice slurring with drowsiness.

'I like you both equally, you know.'

'huh?'

'yeah. I mean, I guess I do. it's different ways, I mean. obviously.'

'you're drunk.'

'I know. but I'm  _serious_ , you know. I actually mean it. I get it, I met you what, half a year ago?'

Joe laughs, sleepy and shaky.

'but I like you just as much as I like her. Harry, you know. I like her in that way, the way teenagers imagine what love's like. I love her, I guess. and you, I guess, I don't know. you're brilliant, actually brilliant, you should do something. go back to school and get a degree and change the world or something.' he rubs his eyes and gropes blindly for the nearest bottle of wine, but finds it to be long empty. 'fuck, I sound stupid.'

Rhys just laughs and takes the bottle from his hands. for a second, he glances up through the glass, as if some liquid could have appeared in it by miracle, before he sets it aside. 'sappy bastard.'

'yeah, yeah. I wasn't done, you know. I guess I feel bad for you too. I don't know, you're so sad.'

'you sure you actually like me, not just pity me?'

''f course I like you. don't see why people have such a problem with being pitied, anyway.' Joe stretches one of his legs, joints cracking, and yawns. 'I mean, it's all just saying that you care, isn't it?'

when Rhys feels his phone buzz with a new text message in his pocket, he doesn't bother checking who it's from.

'I've got a question.'

'go ahead.'

'how much do you know?'

'what?'

'about me. what happened, what I did, all that. how much did you see?'

Joe exhales, 'fuck.'

'what?'

'look, you remember when we met, at the pub, right. I talked to your roommate. ex, you know. what he is. before I went home with you. he told me some things, that you've been having a hard time, that I should be careful. try to not fuck you up any more. that's what he said, I think. he didn't go into detail or anything, just said that you'd been hit pretty hard. something like that.'

Rhys watches Joe rub his eyes once again, and this time, he thinks he might actually see a tear or two creep down the side of Joe's cheek toward the carpet.

'fuck.'

'yeah, fuck. and then I saw the drawings, the ones on your fridge. and yeah. don't understand how people can not pity you.' Joe yawns and turns his head to face Rhys, so close that their noses brush. 'a lot, I guess. if that answers your question.'

Rhys says, 'fuck,' again, can't think of anything else, and his phone buzzes again. 'I think we should go to bed.'

'yeah.' they help each other off the carpet, and Joe laughs, a little, when Rhys' knees start to go weak and he has to hold himself up on the armchair. 'I'm serious, though, I like you. I like you both. like you. even though you're like this.'

'thanks. I guess.' Rhys laughs and isn't sure why, and he adds, 'I guess I like you too.'

Joe takes his hand and they start to make their way across the hallway, together, and Rhys' phone buzzes again and he still ignores it. they stumble into the spare room together, and Rhys laughs when Joe bumps his head on the low door frame. Joe has a tight grip on his wrist and Rhys lets him, he likes it, actually, and then Joe's lips are on his, mouth still filled with the sour-sweet taste of wine, there's hands scrambling under their shirts and fingers pressing under their waistbands. Rhys can feel at least four hearts beat in his chest and wonders how much of it is from the alcohol.

'just so you know,' Joe says as they pull each other's shirts off, 'I don't think of this as cheating. I don't know what this is.'

'you want to say this doesn't mean anything?'

Joe kisses Rhys again. 'it means whatever you want it to mean.'

the phone in his pocket buzzes again, and Rhys ignores it as he undoes Joe's trousers and pushes his own to his ankles. then the buzzing is gone, and in a way, he feels almost free.

*

it's over far too soon.

*

(the morning after, they're sitting around the cramped table in the kitchen. Harry is waiting for the aspirin in her glass to dissolve, face pale and hair still tangled and unwashed around her shoulders, and she complains about her hangover, who decided it would be a good idea to drink in the middle of the week, and that she's probably going to murder someone at work today.

Joe laughs at her and says that she's the biggest lightweight of them all, and she punches him in the arm, but then she kisses him and complains that he tastes like morning breath.

Rhys watches the both of them between spoonfuls of his yoghurt, mango, and almost wants to smile, and he thinks that maybe he doesn't mind being second best.

later that day, when he has the flat to himself, he checks his phone, nine unread messages, and he decides to call Faris.)

*

(months after that, still, when the trees in the orchard are starting to grow apples yet again, Rhys and Joe are sitting in the lawn chairs behind Faris' house, sipping cold beers and listening to a dodgy signal on Joe's old transistor radio. Joe uncaps his marker and writes on the armrest of his chair, 'having everything and having nothing is the exact same thing. everything is nothing, with a twist.'

at that, Rhys sneers and reaches for his fags, and he lights one and doesn't say anything.

a butterfly lands on his knee, deep red with eye-like designs on it. it's beautiful and it's frail, and it doesn't move when he grabs it by the wings and pulls it apart. it doesn't even struggle and Rhys hates how trite the whole gesture is.

Joe looks at him. 'the fuck was the point of that?'

Rhys shrugs and lets the shatters of wings fall down into the grass. 'there isn't one. the point is that there is no point.' he takes a swig from his beer and his fingers are shaking. 'maybe I felt like hurting something for once, I don't know.'

they don't speak for a very long time, and at some point, Faris comes out to join them on the patio. he’s wearing a gaudy red printed shirt, and Rhys tries to remember if he's ever seen this shirt on Faris, if he's ever seen Faris wearing any colour that isn't black at all. the shirt is probably Tom's, Tom, who's tall and quiet and polite and makes Faris happy in a way that it makes Rhys happy by association, and who's the last person on the planet who should ever be called Tom.

a little, the pattern of the shirt reminds Rhys of the butterfly's wings, and suddenly, he has the desire to be violently ill.

'you know,' Faris says after it stays quiet for a longer while, obviously speaking to Joe. 'he's trying to get better, he really is.'

'yeah,' Joe says. 'yeah, I know.')


End file.
